Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts that entered into her physique: she even acted her own character, and so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own. George Eliot, "Middlemarch"
JILL
"Go into my bedroom," Steve said, my ponytail wrapped around his forearm. "In the leftmost desk drawer, you will find a pair of handcuffs and a leather blindfold. When you hear me lock you in, take off your clothes, put on the blindfold, cuff your wrists behind you, kneel on the rug, and wait for me. Got that?"
"Yes, Sir." I answered. "May I go to the bathroom first, Sir?" (We didn't have any rules about my addressing him as "Sir," it's just something I did when it seemed appropriate--like when my self-preservation instinct kicked in.)
"Yes, you may. Any other questions?"
"Are there any actual office supplies in your desk, Sir?" He slapped my ass, hard. *Worth it.*
"No more questions, Sir."
Motherfucker, he could be so arrogant, though!
We were shooting pool in some dive. I had played a lot of pool as a student, but was keeping that to myself, hoping to see how much trouble I could get into by sharking him--when he took a pack of yellow sticky notes from his inside jacket pocket, peeling two of them off and giving one to me.
"Let's put a wager on this game," he said, drawing a pen out of his other inside jacket pocket.
"What sort of wager?' I asked.
"Whatever you want if you win, write it on this sticky note. I'll do the same."
"Anything?" I asked, a little incredulous.
"Absolutely anything. Write in on the sticky side, then fold the note like a little envelope, stick it shut, and place it under the bumper on the pool table."
"Aren't you going to tell me what you want?" I asked apprehensively.
"Nope."
"Don't you want to know what I write?" I asked.
"Nope."
I did as he said, and he racked the balls and handed me a cue.
What if he wants to flog me at an event? What if he wants to tie me to a tree and fuck me outdoors? What if he wants me to dance in a cage in public?
"Would you like to break?", he offered. I said I would, and almost immediately regretted it as the cue-ball struck off-center, sending only a smattering of balls rolling listlessly around the table. I couldn't believe how flustered and nervous I was.
Steve stepped into the little garden-of-easy-pickings I'd planted for him, and within minutes he had sunk half the striped balls. With each ball, I got edgier and edgier.
"Steve,' I pleaded, "please tell me what you wrote on your note!' He looked straight at me and said, with an infuriating grin, "This is really bothering you, isn't it?" His obvious amusement did nothing for my mood, and I went on pestering after nearly every shot.
At last he put down his cue, took my face in his hands, and said quietly, "Are you going to play, or safeword? It's your choice."
I clamped my lips shut. Except for the clover clamps, he had never done anything to me in private I'd had to ask him to stop doing, so safewording my way out of a mind-game in a public place felt weak and silly. But no doubt about it: this one was hard. Between the secrecy, the apparent absence of any boundaries whatever, and the demand for absolute trust, it took me a long time to reply,
"I'll play."
He held back as long as he could, prolonging my agony of suspense until there was no putting it off any longer. He sank the eight-ball, and my fate was sealed.
He handed me his note, on which he had drawn a picture of a riding crop, which, while I was afraid of them, I had given qualified consent to. Then he picked up my paper and, without looking at it, crumpled it into a tiny ball.
"Hey," I said, "don't you want to know what's on there?"
"Nope," he said, flicking it into the trash can.
Bastard!
The moment I heard the lock engage, I felt trapped and panicky. I tried the door handle; it didn't budge, and my anxiety escalated. I also felt fury as I stalked around the room like a caged animal. It was degrading, demeaning, and goddamn him, sexy as fuck.
I pulled myself together when I realized that he could walk in at any moment, and he'd better find me as he wants me. I stripped off my clothes, folding them neatly the way he liked, and opened the desk drawer.
Shit. The handcuffs were the hinged kind, with no wiggle room at all. Whatever was coming, it was going to be hard.
Cuffed, blind, and naked, I knelt on the rug and waited, trying hard not to let my imagination start stoking my fear. I was also becoming humiliatingly wet.
Unsurprisingly, all that hurrying was a total waste, as he kept me waiting a long time. I couldn't see a clock, of course, but I felt my feet and lower legs go numb. Mindfully, I tried to stay completely present to what I was feeling, sensing, experiencing in that moment. But it didn't make the wait go by any faster. And when I heard the key in the lock and felt the whoosh of air as the door opened, I was relieved that he had finally come for me. Which was, I'm sure, also part of his plan. Asshole.
He strode slowly across the floor, and I suddenly felt the warm caress of leather against my cheek.
"Hello, Grasshopper," he said, gently playing the crop along my neck, chest, breasts, and belly. He paused at my vulva, letting the tress press firmly against my embarrassing wetness until I whimpered.
Taking hold of my ponytail, he pulled me to my feet, steadying me with his other hand until the feeling returned to my feet and legs. I shivered; here it comes, I thought.
Possibly to avoid putting me off the crop forever, he spent a good long time warming up my ass with rapid, gentle swats, bringing blood to the surface and ensuring that the first hard strokes wouldn't sting unbearably. I was grateful for that--until the first hard stroke came.
With a resounding thwack that made me gasp, the stroke left a spot of fiery pain on my ass. While I was still processing it, another came, and another.
Pain aside, there was something humiliating about having all the blows land on my ass; it made me feel...well, like a bad girl being punished. And you can guess how that made me feel. Again, I found myself on a bewildering ride of pain, humiliation, and arousal.
Before long, I didn't have enough bandwidth to spare for self-analysis, as Steve found his rhythm and the blows rained down incessantly on my defenseless backside. They kept coming and coming, until the individual strokes joined in a continuous crimson bandolier of pain. I began to feel as though I were floating, detached. He backed off and returned to the light warmup strokes. I felt him pick me up and place me face-down on the bed. I was very wet.
After a few more minutes of light warmup strokes, he again built intensity until I began to feel floaty and, strangely, blissful. Again he backed off; I lost track of how many times we went around this cycle, but I eventually seemed to lose inner as well as outer control. I tried to speak--to beg him to hit me harder--but couldn't remember how; tried to spread my legs, but they wouldn't obey me. I was a helpless, feral bundle of pure sensation. Through the haze, I heard him say, "Three more!", cupping his hand over my mouth as I screamed at the last three vicious strokes.
Suddenly my hands were free, my eyes uncovered, and I began to realize how high I had gotten as the painful process of re-entry set in. All the pain I had stopped feeling came roaring back like a brushfire. All the intensity of emotion I had been riding hit me at once, and I began to sob uncontrollably, cathartically. Steve kissed away my tears, told me how brave I was and how proud he was of me, and held me until I stopped shaking. "Thank you," I whispered again and again, and he folded me gently in his arms and showered me with kisses.
Reaching over to the bedside table, he took a bottle of lotion which he began, very gingerly, to massage onto my hot, stinging butt. When the fire had cooled a little, he placed one hand between my shoulder blades to hold me still, and with the other, he carefully slid three fingers into me from behind, slowly fucking me with two of them while teasing my clit with the third. After all that intensity, I began moaning almost immediately. Within minutes, I felt my walls clamp down on his hand, and cried out with release.
"Good girl," he murmured, using his restraining hand to stroke my hair. "Come for me. You are so brave, and so beautiful." When I lay, panting and inert, on the bed, he stood up, and I heard him undress. At some point, my ponytail holder had broken, and my hair spilled loose all over my back. Sliding into bed beside me, he gathered it up and stroked it until my breathing had finally slowed, then scooped me into a spoon-cuddle, careful to leave some space between himself and my battered bum.
"When did you first realize you were kinky?" I asked him, after resting in his arms awhile. "Was there a moment?"
"Oh, yes," he replied.
"Tell me."
"When I was a kid, local television stations produced early-morning kiddie shows. Local celebrities acted as hosts, sang songs, and brought in local people kids would be interested in, like some guy from the zoo with a big snake or something.
"One morning, my local show brought on a man who demonstrated that helium balloons were lighter than air by tying about fifty of them to the outstretched arms of a telegenic little girl. With each balloon the man tied to her, I became more and more excited, and by the time the balloons finally lifted her a few inches off the ground, I was---without having the mental category for it, of course--desperately turned on. I thought, 'Hey, I want to tie things to pretty girls, too!'"
"Aw," I said. "Cute, kinky little you! What was 'turned on' like?"
"Face hot. Breathing funny. Would have been horribly embarrassed if anyone else had been in the room. Not sexual, per se, of course, but definitely erotic. I was completely entranced." Drawing me closer, he said, "What about you, Grasshopper? Any formative events in your backstory?"
"Actually, I did have a kind of epiphany my senior year in high school," I answered.
"Do tell."
"Well, you know that I've always had capture-and-bondage fantasies, ever since I can remember. And once I became a hormone-addled teenager, I started having all these submissive feelings toward boys--wanting them to overpower me, objectify me, dominate me, restrain me, rough me up, boss me around. I wanted to be of service to them. And there were a few bad-ass girls who made me feel the same way. But it was always just this swirling, bubbling cauldron of feelings I didn't understand, or have any idea what to do about."
"Totally get that," Steve said.
"Then, in the spring of our senior year, all the girls on the pep squad got together and rented a dunk tank at a town carnival; you know--girl in a swimsuit sits on a plank over a tub of cold water, and guys pay money to throw baseballs at a target, hoping to dunk the girls by hitting the bullseye."
"You have my full and undivided attention."
"As Gym Decorator-in-Chief, I was an honorary cheerleader for the day. We raised a ton of money for some worthy cause; I can't remember what. But it was a long day, and each of us signed up for several shifts in the cage."
